Mute Assistance
Trapped in a lake under the kelp,
I’m gonna need a little help.
While climbing ladders, as I stand there
I could use a steadying hand there.
A sous chef’s nice when cooking meals,
a strong arm needed when I wear heels;
but when I tell a funny story,
or one that’s scary, tense or gory,
as towards the denouement I’m wending,
don’t help by blurting out the ending!
The prompt today was HELP!
Drop It!!!
Drop a hint or drop your jeans.
This word sounds like what it means.
A little word both curt and short
that seeks to tell dogs to abort
their plans to hoard the stick we’ve thrown.
“Drop it, boy,” we all intone
when it’s time for them to stop it,
bring the stick to us and drop it!
I’ve dropped a cake and dropped a name
now and then.They’re not the same.
We’ve all dropped––and been dropped as well.
The first? Relief. The second? Hell.
Eye drops soothe an aching eye,
To drop’s to cease, or fall or die.
“Dew Drop Inn” is a timeworn name
for a motel that’s rather lame.
To drop someone a line is nice,
but dropping in on me’s a vice.
So call ahead, if you are able––
Email, Skype or Tweet or cable;
but do not show up at my door
no matter how much I adore
you, for I do not like to drop
what I’m doing to have to stop
to talk or buy or give direction.
“Dropping in” is an infection
endemic to a smaller town
where neighbors given to plopping down
daily might enact the sin
of dropping by or dropping in–
bad habits that when they aren’t stopped
result in those friends being dropped.
In short, I’ve dropped this hint enough.
Enough of subtlety and fluff.
I will state clearly this one set truth.
“Dropping in” is just uncouth.
If my house is on your route,
just wave or give your horn a toot.
That is sufficient for you to do.
If you drop in, I might drop you!
You haven’t had enough? Here is another sillier poem on the subject of dropping in.
(The one-word prompt today was “Drop.”)
“Half a Heart” detail of mixed media wall sculpture by jdb (Wood, moss, shells and assorted dried beach scrub.)
Half a Love Story
Lately, when it comes to kissing
something seems to have gone missing;
for if the kissing rules are heeded,
it’s clear two pairs of lips are needed.
I have the half that’s labeled “me.”
I only lack the one called “he.”
So when it comes to birds and bees,
I must rely on memories!
The one-word prompt today was “Incomplete.”
Flow Chart
Ebb and flow, ebb and flow––
at first our lives seem very slow.
Once the Christmas tree came down,
vacuum cleaners all over town
removed needles curled and brown,
and echoed each child’s yearly whine
as they picked up remains of pine.
Why did Christmas have to go?
Then that slow tick of passing time
through other holidays sublime:
Valentine’s and Easter and
Mayday with its sleight-of-hand
as a basket-wielding band
(before they quickly pushed the bell,
turned on their heels and ran like Hell)
moved silently as any mime.
July 4th and Halloween
moved across the year’s broad screen
as days both secular and holy
that children loved came on so slowly.
Holidays just seemed to creep
trudging up a year so steep
impatient children had to weep
impatiently and make a scene.
Thanksgiving filled with birds to stuff
should have pleased them all enough,
but thoughts of Christmas swirled instead
through each greedy little head.
Christmas music, gifts and trees
pervade the brisk Thanksgiving breeze
bringing children to their knees.
Waiting for Christmas is so tough!!!
But years pass quicker as we get older.
From fresh to hot to crisp to colder.
Time that used to flow so thickly
suddenly moves by so quickly
that that dread April holiday
wherein we pay and pay and pay
does not seem far enough away
as we search for our taxes folder!!!
(Click on first photo and then on arrows to enlarge and move through gallery.)
Trapped
Mosquito netting above my head
and tucked securely around my bed.
What person forced to resort to it
hasn’t made a sport of it
at bedtime, just as they recline,
shut off the lights, and hear the whine
of a mosquito, far then near
directly buzzing in their ear!
Mosquito netting so fine and thin,
both keeps them out and keeps them in.
I knew if I tried hard enough that I could find my picture of the mosquito–netted bed in my treehouse! Finally found it in my Facebook photos.
In addition to being a fine writer, Denise Brown is an accomplished drummer and vocalist who plays several gigs weekly around La Manzanilla–most frequently at Palapa Joe’s. More information about her playing schedule is given after the poem.
La Manzanilla Tourist
…visitors are slightly different
How can you tell a tourist is aqui
Camera in hand bumping into me
Asking poor Lydia for plain white bread
Always looking up never ahead
Laying on the beach in all shades of red
Swimming in water most of us dread
How can you tell a tourist at the bar
Three margaritas goes way too far
You can’t drink like that in the heat of the day
They don’t like what they hear when they hear what I say
Come morning they rise looking so ghastly
Straight to the bano stepping so fastly
And out of the bathroom appearing quite ghostly
They say it’s the street food. I say it’s probably tequila (mostly.)
How can you tell a tourist is aqui
Just look around it’s no mystery.
Denise will play a final gig with Dave and Sally next Thursday, Feb. 25. She also plays there with the Lounge Lizards on Fridays and will play with Bindu Gross at artis gallery at an event that begins at 4pm on Feb 24.
Denise Brown
Here is the challenge given by okcforgottenman. The three words he gave me are hubris, hat rack and unwieldy. The poem below is given in jpeg form because it is a shape poem and WordPress changes the shape to left justified in the Reader.
To see my other poems written for this prompt, go HERE.
Thanks, okcforgottenman, for the three-word prompt. To see okcforgottenman’s blog, go HERE.
The Prompt: Write a piece making use of an article, a noun and an adjective provided by one of your viewers.
Kicking the Bucket
I do not like the bucket list, in fact I just abhor it
even though I know the masses tend to just adore it.
Anything where many rush to jump onto a wagon,
makes my skin crawl and alerts my impulse to start gaggin’.
I like originality in labeling my wants.
I do not even like to visit trendy restaurants.
And so to ask me to record my bucket list for you,
let alone prioritize, choosing one or two
to brag about as though the label “bucket list” is clever,
makes me want to find a guillotine and pull the lever!
I have no list of what I want to do before I go.
I only have the wish to still maintain the status quo
by staying healthy and alert and doing every day
precisely what I want to as I make my way
toward the final hour and toward my final minute.
I simply want to live my life with me securely in it!
Sound of mind and active, engaged with other folks
without becoming fodder for younger people’s jokes.
Not the fogie sitting safely in her lair
bibbed and drugged and senile in the pen of elder care.
I want to end my time on earth devoid of tear or sigh
sitting at a table drinking rum and eating pie!!!
The Prompt: What is the eleventh item on your bucket list?
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/kick-it/
Holy Moly
My friend Michael and I love to issue poetry challenges to each other. We once did one on parts of the body: Knees, etc. So, when I noticed his bandaged big toe and asked if it was broken and he replied that he’d had a mole removed from it, I decided it was time for another challenge. Below is his poem and then my reply:
ODE TO A MOLE (recently removed from my toe)
Old friend, we trod the bumpy road
of ups and downs together, you and me –
I send you home with this sad ode
to join your scabby family.
You were an ugly, lumpy one
but always benign in your own way –
you did no harm to anyone,
now you’re cut off and thrown away.
Although your features did not please,
I give you this, my final thought
for one who sometimes smelt like cheese
“They also serve who only stand and wart!”
Michael Warren
This poem was written in answer to Michael’s. May he forgive me for using his personae in writing it.
Holy Moly
Oh mole that graced my biggest toe,
you had a thankless row to hoe.
I did not know your purpose there–
devoid of title and of hair.
Had I but known why you were given,
had you only come and shriven,
I might have given absolution,
reacted with less resolution
to sever our relationship
–to halt the surgeon’s unkind snip.
We have so little knowledge of
digits that fill our socks or glove.
We do not know of strange attractions
that might have influenced your actions.
Oh mole that lived beneath my knee,
my leg, my ankle and most of me––
that chose to dwell far far below,
clinging to my aging toe.
What fierce attraction brought you there
to form this most unlikely pair?
Came you from Nile or from Ganges
to wed largest of my phalanges?
How did you choose from all that were
to settle there on him or her?
(I am embarrassed here to note,
I only know my toes by rote:
big toe, second toe, middle toe, stinky,
little toe, simply known as pinky.
I do not know their names or gender,
only that they’re long and slender.)
True, I clip their nails with care––
remove the occasional long-grown hair––
but I never address my bod
lest others label me as odd.
So you must know this apology
is no means a doxology.
I do no honor to thy name.
I do not wish to spread your fame.
In short, that act would be absurd.
I simply want to say a word
explaining to you that although
your habitation of my toe
was ended by easy decision,
I felt no scorn and no derision.
I hope this ode might serve to leaven
your anger as you speed towards heaven.
I really would not like to think
that once arrived, you’d raise a stink
to blacklist my immortal soul
by making a mountain out of a mole.
–Judy Dykstra-Brown
Sport Retort
When faced with talk of games and sport,
I seldom have cause to retort.
For dribbling, sparring, touching down
raise no emotions but a frown.
The games I play are just of mind
Less physically taxing and more kind.
Using tongues and brains to spar,
I am more likely under par
than when I hit a pock-marked ball
off of the course to hit a wall,
bounce off and into someone’s car
to be transported to regions far.
I have not thought to scream out, “Fore!”
My terminology’s as poor,
I fear, as my coordination,
I will not, ever, stun the nation
with my prowess with balls or bats,
parallel bars, hurdles or mats.
Likewise, I have no interest in
watching others skate and spin,
touch balls down or thrust a fist.
When it comes to sports, I must insist
when the tube depicts each bout,
I am forgiven for running out!!!
(Thanks for the loan of the golf balls, Jan!)
The Prompt: Are you a sports fan? If not, tell us why.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/fandom/
